We Three
by Razzaroo
Summary: "We three, we're not a crowd. We're not even company." Two Shadowhunters, a faery king and a sunny hillside.


**A/N. Gratuitous Vera Lynn lyric in the summary? Yes. Gratuitous OOC fluff? Definitely. I have lost all pretence of standards**

* * *

"Has anyone ever told you that you have lovely feet?"

Cristina doesn't even twitch when Gwyn gently presses his thumb to the ball of her foot, "Only you. Maybe it's because I wear shoes?"

"Silly human things," Gwyn says, pressing against the sore spot on her instep, "What use do I have for shoes?"

"You were human once."

"A very, _very _long time ago," his hands move up to rub the bone of her ankle, "And you have lovely ankles too."

She pulls her foot out of his hold and he lets her, "Careful. Mark might think you have a thing for feet."

"He already knows all my deepest perversions." Gwyn reached out to prod the dozing Mark's cheek, "Don't you, _annwyl__?"_

Mark grunts in response. The three of them were on a grassy hillside, surrounded by a carpet of wildflowers; Gwyn had said it was one of Mark's favourite places in their five years together, which had prompted an eyebrow raise from Mark, along with an "_And you're the expert on my favourite places?"_

"And what do they include?" Cristina asks, looking over her knees at Gwyn, "Whips, chains and leather?"

"No whips," Mark says, opening his gold eye, ""No chains. He likes leather though. Leather shoes, mainly."

Cristina smiles, "Silly human things, you said."

"Silly human things can look good too. Besides, as you say, I was human once."

Cristina curls her toes into the grassy earth, digging her nails into grass and the soft velvet of petals. Gwyn moves toward Mark, curling in the same way a flower leans towards the sun, and the pair of them murmur to each other in Welsh. It's a slippery language, Cristina thinks, full of rolling syllables and sounds that are breathed rather than spoken.

"Hey," she says, prodding the crown of Mark's head with her toe, "I thought your fish language was for when you two are alone."

"Fish language?" Mark says, turning his head upwards to look at her.

"_Si, _fish language," Cristina nods, "It's slippery."

"Fish speak Gaelic," Mark says, "Scots Gaelic. I know; I've met merrows."

"Merrows aren't fish. You're thinking of _minnows_."

That makes Gwyn laugh, a sound like autumn leaves, dry and wheezy. His chest jumps in a way that Cristina knows makes your ears rumble when pressed to his ribcage. She also knows how his voice tremors when he recites _englynion_ and what swear words taste like on his tongue, just like she knows why Mark's smile still has the edge of a hunting wolf and why his kisses are as soft and deep as the ocean.

She knows because they show her in their private moments, when it's just the three of them and the Clave and the Hunt and the entire world is locked on the other side of a door.

"Such a faraway face, _blodyn_," Gwyn says, plucking the petals from a mayweed, "What's on your mind?"

"The fact that you have strange tastes," Cristina says, pushing away a curl that the wind had blown across her face. She lets Gwyn pull her against his chest, despite the warm of the day, and stretches her legs in front of her, pointing her toes like a cat, "And the fact that you don't let us call you silly pet names."

"Your taste must be stranger, to be with me at all," Gwyn says and his voice rumbles through Christina's skull where her head is tucked into the hollow of his throat, "And I don't let you call me silly pet names because you would do it in Latin or Greek, because the Clave only teaches you silly little languages."

"I would do it in Spanish."

"Then I will think about it."

"I don't call him pet names," Mark pipes up, "In Latin, Greek or Welsh."

"No, you just insult me," Gwyn says and he rests his chin on Cristina's head, "In the best way."

"That's because you're an asshole." Mark's tone is cheery and he shifts to rest his head on Cristina's thigh. She combs her fingers through hair that shines silver-gold in the sun. The wild smell of faeries surrounds her and fills every breath she takes.

It's almost intoxicating.

"I'm old enough to be." Gwyn shifts, rocking back and leaning on his hands.

Mark mutters something in Welsh and Gwyn replies, both of them sharing some private joke. Cristina ignores them and presses her temple against Gwyn's collar bone, closing her eyes and feeling the steady rise and fall of his breathing. Her hand stays tangled in Mark's pale blond curls.

The Clave doesn't like it; Cristina's certain that her parents wouldn't like it. They're not a crowd and Gwyn at least can't be called good company.

But it's enough.


End file.
